Letters
by Idhrenniel the Space Cadet
Summary: Letters from Wendy to Peter after he left. A bit angsty.


**Letters**

Peter

Could you please come back?

Pretty please???

I'm bored.

Wendy

Dear Peter,

Well I'm _waiting_!

All right, look.

I'm sorry I ever left Neverland.

I miss you, and

I absolutely hate, hate, HATE growing up.

There, I said it. You happy? You were right. It's terrible.

I've got this weird new 'young lady' room now

And it's filled with ugly pink lacy things

That remind me of my grandmother

And not with books like it used to be.

And mother told me yesterday that

I've go to start wearing a corset.

… Oh, I shouldn't have said that.

Aunt Millicent says that

I can't talk to boys about that sort of thing.

But still! It's horrid and makes it

Hard to breathe.

And there's this mean girl at my finishing school

Who's worse than Captain Hook

And says that my brown hair is not in fashion

And that I'm too fat.

Mother says that's a load of nonsense, but I don't know.

Is it?

Would I be in fashion in Neverland, Peter?

… Am I _boring_ you, Peter?

Well on a lighter note I'm trying to write a novel!

I have to work on it in secret though,

In my 'young lady' room after hours.

Most people would tease me if they found out.

Even my brothers push me away now

Whenever I try to tell them stories.

They use growing up as an excuse.

Do they just not like them anymore?

Maybe my novel just needs to be more interesting.

I'll bring in the pirates a chapter early,

If you want!

Please, _please_

Tell me what you think!

Your friend,

Wendy Darling

Dear Mr. Pan,

I _do_ hope you know how absolutely

Unforgivable it is to lie.

Because I am beginning to think that it what you did

When you promised that you

Would never forget me.

How many years has it _been_, Mr. Pan?

You must realize that

There is no possible way that I may ever return

To Neverland with you.

My duty is to my children and my husband now,

Else the neighbors will say

I'm an unfit mother.

And I _cannot _bring gossip like that down on my husband…

But I do so love to be a mother, Mr. Pan!

It is almost like being with

You and the lost boys again.

Jane is five years old, and

Daniel has lived for only two.

I wish they would stay that way,

So eager to listen to my stories

As I tuck them in every night.

I suppose I must admit that

I speak of you often, and Jane simply _adores_ your adventures.

See how honest I am?

You _could _do with an example.

But on special days,

Like Christmases and birthdays and such,

I'll take out my silly attempt at a novel

And read from that instead. Though I haven't yet finished it,

I doubt I ever will.

It is so nice for someone to appreciate my stories again…

But I know it will not last.

Because to normal children they are only stories,

Stories to eventually outgrow

And throw away along with their

Rocking horses and stuffed bears and wooden swords

And recall them less and less

Until they can no longer recognize them.

Can you not see that

I must enjoy the time I have left

Before yet another generation

Laughs at the childish fantasies that

I simply cannot lock in the drawer

Where they belong?

You really ought to be more

Considerate of other people's feelings, Mr. Pan.

Most sincerely,

Mrs. Wendy Moire Angela Stuart

Dearest Peter Pan,

I don't even know why I'm writing this.

I returned from Jane's wedding yesterday

And took a peep into the old nursery

Where I used to play—

Where _Jane _and little_ Danny_ used to play—

And opened that big stained glass window

That you floated into so long ago

To feel the winter chill on my fingers

Like I did so often as a child

After acting out a rather violent and swashbuckling

Rendition of Cinderella.

And you know what?

Stuck between the window frame

And the window sill

Were all the letters I wrote to you.

I got the message.

You never received them, and all these years

I've been writing to no one.

Silly, isn't it?

Wasn't I the one who originally told you that

"Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning"

Was an odd thing to put on letters?

But I must speak to you in one way or another, Peter Pan,

Even if I never clap eyes on you ever again.

I think I've finally finished my novel.

Maybe I'll send it to a publisher if

If I strike up enough courage.

Now that my children are all grown up themselves

It will be easier for me.

Less disapproving faces,

Less neighbors' whispering cruel words behind their hands,

And Jane may not laugh as much

When she sees yet again that her mother is

Only pretending to be grown up.

Because it's just about as easy

To be eccentric when you're a frail old woman

As it is to be innocent and heartless as a child.

The world I live in is

Full of expectations, unspoken rules…

But I doubt you'd understand.

You wouldn't be Peter Pan if you did.

Your world is so different from mine,

And all I want to do now is spread my arms as far as they can go

And leap out that window

In case there is a chance that

Strange old hopeful ladies can fly too.

I'll always believe in you, Peter Pan.

Love,

Wendy


End file.
